


Kind of. Sometimes. Maybe.

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Long Way To You [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Cunnilingus, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-26
Packaged: 2018-02-27 02:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2675501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Champagne has always had a knack for putting her in the mood. The first time she’d kissed Jon, it had been with a glass of champagne in her hand, her third if she recalls correctly. The connection has not gone unnoticed, it would seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kind of. Sometimes. Maybe.

Margaery likes to think of herself as a woman of some mystery. In some ways, it’s unearned and unwanted – the rumors about her marriage to Joffrey can still sting – but there are times it comes in handy, particularly with men. It allows them to make her what they want her to be, and Margaery has found that most men are content to think of her as entirely unknowable and inscrutable in the way of all women.

Jon has proven himself to be nothing like most men. He’s figured her out entirely too quickly, which explains why she opens the door to her apartments to find him there at half past ten, still in his suit from his earlier dinner with some dignitary or another, a bottle of champagne dangling between his knuckles as he gives her a boyish grin.

“I saved you some,” he says, wiggling the bottle. She raises a brow at the cork still firmly in the mouth of the bottle.

“You saved me all, it seems.”

He shrugs, moving past her through the door and turning to face her as she closes it. “I know how much you like it,” he says. The quirk of his lips and the arch of his brow – one she frankly thinks he learned from her – tell her he’s aware of precisely how she likes it too. Champagne has always had a knack for putting her in the mood. The first time she’d kissed Jon, it had been with a glass of champagne in her hand, her third if she recalls correctly. The connection has not gone unnoticed, it would seem.

She moves through the foyer and into her sitting room, Jon trailing behind her. She can hear the soft hiss of fabric moving and knows he’s tugging his tie free with one hand, the way he always does after he’s had to wear one all day. Automatically, she turns and holds her hand out, and he drapes the tie over her hand, letting her fold it neatly and set it on a sidetable. His jacket follows, and then his cufflinks, leaving him in waistcoat and shirtsleeves, which he rolls up each arm as she hangs his jacket on the back of a chair and leaves his cufflinks in the cut crystal ashtray she put her own earrings in not two hours earlier.

“Sit,” he says. She purses her lips at him; she’s not usually one to take orders, no matter how gently they’re spoken. As if hearing her unspoken thoughts, he grins, leaning forward to kiss her thoroughly. “Please.”

She settles in a chair, crossing her legs under her silk robe. For a moment, he’s distracted from whatever he’s about by watching her. She allows herself a smug smile. This robe may be her favorite because of how soft and decadent it feels on her skin, but the fact that he likes it as well doesn’t hurt. Clearing his throat, he prizes the cork out of the bottle with both thumbs, ignoring the spill of champagne over his knuckles.

“Shall I get glasses?” she asks, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward in the chair, only for him to stay her with a gesture. To her surprise, he holds the bottle to her lips and tips it upwards, so that she has to drink or else wind up with champagne all over her face. His knuckles against her lower lip and chin are cold and wet with it; something about it strikes her as intensely erotic. The effect is only heightened when he raises the bottle and drinks from it himself, his lips sealed around the mouth where hers had been a moment before.

“Stay,” he tells her. His eyes are dark, his pupils wide. Obediently, she sits back and lifts her right leg to cross it over her left again, but he stops her with a hand on her knee. His grin is sharp and potent. “Don’t bother with that, you’ll only have to uncross them again.” Her whole body throbs with the latent promise in his words.

“I see,” she says, setting her foot back on the floor, pleased at how even her voice stays. When he returns, he’s got a champagne flute, already full. He tips it to her lips, much like he’d done with the bottle, then presses it into her hand and sets the bottle on the little table next to her.

“In case you want a refill,” he says with another grin. For a long moment, he stands in front of her, his trouser legs brushing her knees lightly enough that it tickles and makes her shiver. Or maybe it’s the tension coiling in her body that causes the shiver, along with the knowledge of just what he’s planning on doing to her.

“You brought only one glass,” she notes. She drags her bare foot up the side of his leg. “You’re not thirsty?” Slowly, he drops to his knees, his hands sweeping up from her ankles to her knees and up under her robe to her hips.

“Not for champagne,” he says.

He pulls her hips to the edge of the seat with a movement so strong and swift that her drink sloshes in her glass. His hands search briefly over her skin beneath her robe, finding and then hooking inside the edges of her panties to tug them off and pull them down her legs. For a brief moment, she’s disappointed that he didn’t remove her robe first; she’d chosen those panties expressly for how fetching she’d look to him wearing nothing else when she took off her robe. But then he noses the silk hem of her robe up and lets it sit across his cheeks and nose as flicks his tongue over her clit, and she decides this is also good.

He does this like no one she’s ever known. Margaery pushes her fingers through his hair with one hand in a slow caress, the rhythm of her fingers matching the rhythm of his tongue. With her other hand, she tips the champagne flute to her lips. Margaery’s always been something of a hedonist, but this is decadent even for her, a mouthful of the finest champagne while the finest man gets a mouthful of her. She feels a small surge of smug accomplishment; she’d never expected such things when she’d married Jon.

“You’re full of surprises,” she says. Jon peeks up at her without taking his mouth away from its task, giving his tongue a skillful flick that has her toes curling and her eyes rolling back in her head. She hitches one leg over his shoulder, squirming down in the chair to get closer to him. It takes considerable presence of mind to refill her glass while he’s turning her inside out, but she manages, fortifying herself with a long sip just before she comes, her heel against his back tugging his shirt from his waistband with the force of her orgasm. He follows the writhe of her hips, his mouth never leaving her, and one orgasm rolls into the next, his satisfied hum against her wrenching an indelicate whimper from her own lips.

“Mm,” he hums again, sitting back on his heels. His fingertips stroke over her leg as he watches her like the cat who got the cream, and it’s to stop the smirk spreading over his face as much as anything that Margaery leans forward and holds her glass to his lips, tipping it up for him to take a long swallow. She can taste herself on the rim when she lifts it to her own lips again, something she plays up to him with her hooded gaze and the slow slide of her tongue across her lower hip. The effort isn’t lost on him, judging by the flare of his nostrils, or the way his hand fists in the hem of her robe. It’s not lost on her either. Two orgasms just seconds ago and she’s already in the mood for another. She drags her heel up his back, his waistcoat rucking up beneath it, until she can hook it behind his neck and tug him steadily closer.

“I don’t think you’re done yet, Your Majesty,” she purrs. His eyes drop between her legs and then back up, his tongue sliding over his lower lip in an obviously unconscious movement that is all the more effective for how unthinking it is. She brandishes the bottle in one hand, her glass in the other. “I’ve got half a glass of champagne left and at least another in the bottle.” Jon’s lips twitch into a smirk. He glances up at her once he’s lowered his face so close that she can feel his breath feathering across her skin. Christ, even that’s nearly enough to make her come, she’s so ready.

“Drink slow,” he says, and then his mouth is entirely too busy to talk for quite a while yet.

_title from the song of the same name by Jessie Ware_


End file.
